


Time in Quaaludes and Red Wine

by xGlitterBabyx (MysticSorcha)



Category: David Bowie (Musician)
Genre: Aladdin Sane - Freeform, Based on Real Events, Drug Use, Gen, Minor Violence, Real Life, Self Harm, Self-Destruction, ziggy stardust - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-13 07:30:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MysticSorcha/pseuds/xGlitterBabyx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David slumped down in front of the vanity in his dressing room and glared at his reflection, noting the tears pouring down the stranger’s face. A shock of red hair, too-thin body, gaudy makeup on his face. </p>
<p>Who was this man?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time in Quaaludes and Red Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Been listening to nothing but Bowie the last couple days this came to me after re-reading my fave, yet disturbing, passage in a biography on David about the destruction and retirement of Ziggy Stardust. This is based on real descriptions on how David was seen after said event--I just took that and decided to write what happened.
> 
> Title from his song "Time" off of Aladdin Sane. 
> 
> Fill for H/C Bingo: Nervous Breakdown
> 
> Thank you to my amazingly wonderful beta-- aislinntlc!!!!!

David slumped down in front of the vanity in his dressing room and glared at his reflection, noting the tears pouring down the stranger’s face. A shock of red hair, too-thin body, gaudy makeup on his face.

Who was this man?

Certainly not the same boy from Brixton. What had happened to David Jones? Was he in there somewhere, screaming for freedom? Or was it just David Bowie trapped inside this insanity—hidden behind the mask he called Ziggy?

Or was it Aladdin Sane?

Who was he again?

Aladdin seemed fitting—he felt more insane than sane most days.

“Zane, zane, zane… ouvre le chien…” He droned out, his reflection going in and out of focus.

He opened the top drawer where he kept his ‘medications’ and dumped the lot of them on the desk. White powder exploded in a puffy white cloud and he leaned over, inhaling the fine dust.

David pulled the razor from the pile and started drawing up lines, finding he only had enough for five left. He chuckled dryly, noting he could get more tomorrow and leaned over the first one to snort it up.

He groaned in pleasure and leaned back to let it all sink in before going back to the rest. His mind raced a bit and he looked up at the ceiling, needing more… _something_.

It wasn’t enough. 

Slamming his fist down on the hard wood of the vanity, he let the pain reverberate up his arm. He needed to feel _something_ and that felt—

David screamed, roaring out in protest against his captor, and felt the last shred of sanity snap like a strand of his over-processed hair. Standing up, he kicked the chair out from under him and spat at it, rounding on the mirror to give it the same treatment before slamming his fist through it. The cracks and holes fit the scene in his mind—he was cracked, a “Cracked Actor” that he sang about every night.

His hand and wrist stung violently but he couldn’t have cared less. It was the most real thing he’d felt in a god-awful long time and he relished it.

Voices filtered in through the open window, fans in the streets. “Ziggy we love you!”

He picked up the wine bottle and threw it, aiming for the window but missing and hitting the wall—the dark liquid dripping down and staining the wallpaper. Smirking evilly, he ran toward the window and spied the fans with gleeful looks on their faces.

“Stupid fucking little kids! Why don’t you go back to your mommies and leave me the fuck alone!” David slammed the window, breaking the pane of glass. The terrified looks on their faces would be ingrained in his memory forever, but he didn’t give a shit—he had bigger things to worry about.

He looked down at the thin leotard he’d changed into for the end of the concert, something that a Japanese someone or other made for him.  He couldn’t remember who—or rightly care, if he was honest. He just remembered that he hadliked it.

It only disgusted him now.

David ripped it from his body, scratching deeply at the pale flesh he uncovered. The shocking red lines that formed spurred him on, gripping higher on his chest, arms and neck.  He hated it—hated it all and he let himself feel that, letting his fist fly against his face.

He didn’t know when he had started crying again, the tears mixing with the blood dripping from the gashes he’d carved into his face. David found himself lying on the floor, shivering in the cool London air coming in from the broken window. His body ached, his wrist searing in pain from the broken mirror.

All that was peripheral to the pain he felt inside.

None of this was fun for him anymore. He hated it with every fiber of his being and knew then that he wouldn’t ever tour again. Screw the money, the fame and the delicacies that came with it.

David got up and padded into the bathroom, turning on the shower. Once he was clean enough, he dried off and put on his robe before opening the door and heading out.

Tony was there, as always, the second David appeared. He stopped dead, shock evident on his features. “David?”

“Everyone alright out here?” David asked, his voice vacant. The few people that were still there—band mates, costumers, even Angie, bless her—froze. He knew there was no hiding what had happened in there.

Nodding slowly, Tony swallowed thickly. “What, uhh…”

“Thank you, everyone.” David smiled, sadly, before turning back to the room to get changed. He knew some of them would understand, would even be angry.

Somehow that made him laugh—they all wanted something from him, but didn’t want to help keep him sane.

They could just fuck themselves in hell, he thought.


End file.
